


Roll Credits

by witch_brew



Series: An Eventuality [2]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Abuse, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood, Cannibalism, Death, Forced Cannibalism, Gen, Gender Neutral, Gore, Graphic, Gun Kink, Guns, Guts - Freeform, Other, Reader dies, Revolver - Freeform, Torture, Violence, dubcon, i dont know what else to fucking tag, noncon, this is gross, trigger warning, tw, you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You aren't going to leave this basement alive. You wish you had never met him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ITS ThE SEQUEL TO CLICK CLICK CLICK AND ITS EVEN WORSE HAHAHAH. There will be a final part in which maybe the reader gets some form of revenge kind of.

He always did like cameras.

You're kneeling on the floor, wrists bound behind you, staring into the blinking light on his computer. Your own horrified, dirty face is reflected back from the screen. 

The dead girl is slumped in the corner now. He moved her shortly after turning on the camera. He has a bandanna tied around his face, masking his identity from most. But you'd know him, were you on the other side of the screen, watching whatever horrifying events he has in store for you.

You'd know his eyes. 

“Alright, Hasi, smile for the camera.” He breathes, crouching behind you, his voice low in your ear.

As you force your mouth into a weak, pained smile, his hand gripping your hair to keep your eyes on the camera, you remember the first time he filmed with you. 

–

After the rabbit he didn't really hold back in regards to animals. 

Anytime he found a hurt animal he'd bring it to you. Make you hurt it. Make you watch him hurt it.

(He found them a bit too often for it to be coincidence, you knew that. Animals don't get injuries like that by mistake.)

This time, though, it was different. 

He had a dog. A puppy, really, injured and whining and you were already in tears when he gave you the rock. 

“Kill it.” He whispered. 

You lifted the rock, but then a movement from behind you made you pause. You looked back.

Strade was holding up a camcorder, pointed at you. A red blinking light informed you that it was recording, and the rock lowered slowly to your side.

“What are you doing?” You asked, timidity showing in your voice. 

He grinned. 

“We're making a movie, Hasi.” 

You didn't like this. Not one bit. You took a step away from the injured animal, and his smile slipped away. 

(This was going to be the first time he actually hurt you. The first time it was clearly not play.)

Strade turned away, carefully placing the camera on a nearby stump, before turning back to you. The light continued to blink. His expression was angry. Furious. 

He tackled you to the ground, pinning your wrists above your head. When you opened your mouth to scream, he brought his head down against yours with a loud crack, dazing you. Tears ran down your cheeks as spots of light dotted your vision. 

When you managed to focus again, he was tugging your shirt up, revealing your soft stomach to his gaze, and the camera's. 

He pulled out a pocket knife, and you began to beg and sob, squirming to escape the older boy. 

He didn't listen, just smiled, running the blade across your skin. 

He cut.

It wasn't deep. He knew better. But it hurt and you shouted his name, the forest muffling your noises, no one would be able to hear you here. 

He only cut you a few times before dropping the knife and lifting the rock, staring down at you. 

His eyes were so cold. Hateful. 

“Will you do it, or do you want me to?” He whispered, parroting the time in your tree house. 

You hiccuped and sobbed, snot and tears mixing on your face.

“I w-will!”

He smiled then, friendliness returning as if it had never left, and stood up, offering you his hand. You took it, struggling to your feet, leaves sticking to your clothes and hair. 

He handed you the rock, and you turned to the dog. 

He didn't let you do it fast this time. First it's ribs, then it's legs, before he finally let you crush its skull. You were covered in blood by the time it was done, and you'd have to sneak into his house to clean up before going home. 

After, when you were sitting on his bathroom floor, his fingers working the leaves free from your hair, you asked him. 

“Were you gonna kill me?”

He looks at you and smiles, giving your hair a friendly tug.

“Do you think I'd do that, Hasi?”

You pretended that the answer was no. 

–  
Now, kneeling in his basement, there is no pretending. 

You're going to die here.

“Now today is a special day, I've been reunited with an old friend. I think that calls for celebration, yeah, Hasi?”

You gave a small nod, shaking, trying to glance his way. You need to see his eyes. You can't tell what he's thinking unless you do. 

“Excellent!” He says, loudly, and you flinch. 

He releases your hair, walking over to the dead girl. You don't look, choosing to alternate between staring at the ground and watching your own face on his laptop screen. 

There's a sickening sound of flesh tearing, and you clench your fists, shaking.

What is he doing to her?

She's already dead.

After a moment, Strade returns to you, kneeling in front of you this time, just slightly to the side so that he isn't obscuring your face from the camera. His hands are bloody, and you see a thick chunk of fleshy, red gore in between his finger and thumb. 

“Open your mouth.”

You want to vomit. You want to say no, to fight him, to scream and bite and kick. But you know by now what happens when you refuse an order from Strade. You know. 

You open your mouth, chest tightening as your lungs seem to stop functioning. 

Strade doesn't hesitate. He never does. 

He shoves his bloodied fingers into your mouth, along with the chunk of flesh and meat he's carved off the girl he'd made you kill. The meat is still warm. 

You try not to gag, squirming in repulsion, and after a moment of holding the disgusting, pulpy mass against your tongue, Strade lets go and retracts his fingers, swiping them on his pants. 

“Swallow it.” He breathes. 

A soft whine escapes you as you struggle to force the fleshy mass down your throat, managing after a long, agonizing minute. 

Strade smiles at you, that same smile he gave you when you were younger and did something right. That false pride. It used to bring you such comfort. Now it frightens you.

“Good Hasi.” He says, excitement shining in his voice. Like a kid on Christmas. 

He pets you for a moment, and you fight the urge to lean into his hand. It's been so long since anyone showed you any affection. 

(You avoided people after Strade.)

You never realized how touch-starved you'd become.

He steps back, watching you, considering his next move. You tremble. 

You don't want to die.

But you don't want to suffer either.

You doubt either outcome is avoidable. 

He walks away, and you hear rustling from behind you, but you remain still, frozen in place. He returns to you soon, holding the same knife he made you use on that girl in one hand, a length of rope in the other.

He ties you to the post she had previously occupied, tracing the sharp edge of the knife lightly over your cheek, almost lovingly, leaving the faintest sting. Practically a paper-cut. 

“I'm going to get rid of her, Hasi, and then I'll come play with you some more. Be good.” 

He rises, putting the knife away, and scoops up the dead girl, stomping up the stairs with her. 

He leaves the camera on. 

-  
You eventually fall asleep, exhaustion beating your fear and discomfort. When you wake, your entire body is stiff from sleeping in a sitting position, shoulders aching from the way Strade left you tied. 

It's dark, apart from the laptop, camera still blinking eerily at you. 

You squirm in discomfort, unable to find a position that relieves the strain in your back and arms. Your wrists feel raw from the chafing rope. 

You aren't sure how long you slept, but you don't feel very rested, so you doubt it was very long. Maybe an hour or two. 

You look around, wondering what woke you, only to spot Strade standing at the base of the stairs, tossing something with a metallic shine back and forth between his hands as he watches you. 

You wonder how well he can see you in the dark, but don't have time to ponder that before he flicks on the light, the florescent bulbs flickering for a moment before lighting the basement with their too-bright glow. 

Strade is beaming at you. A chill runs down your spine. 

He looks so much like his childhood self that it hurts to look, and yet you can't turn your wide eyed gaze away from his as he walks forwards with purpose. 

“I got something, Hasi. Just for you.” He says, stopping just out of view of the laptop camera. 

You glance down at his hand as he holds up the object he had previously been tossing and your breath leaves you in a horrified gust. 

It's a gun. A revolver, so similar to the one he'd picked up in that old man's house, so many years ago. 

“You remember too, yeah?” He asks, still smiling. He's always smiling. 

He always looks so fucking friendly. You fell for it so hard when you were young. You were so easy then. Easy to manipulate, to mold into the perfect little victim.

(You still are, in a way, easy. It's not like you ever healed from him.)

You whimper when his smile begins to slip. He wants an answer. He asked a question. What was it? Oh.

“I remember.” You croak, voice cracking on the last syllable.

His smile returns, bubbly as ever. 

“Good.” He says. 

You watch him approach his work bench, lifting that same bandanna from before and tying it to obscure the bottom half of his face from the camera.

He begins to walk towards you then, toying with the gun in his hand, before pressing it firmly against your forehead. 

You can see the malicious glee in his eyes as your entire body instinctively tenses in fear and anticipation.

He pulls the trigger. 

Click, click, click. 

There's a long moment of silence before you remember to breathe, sucking in several ragged breaths, body shaking as the adrenaline that flooded your body when he pulled the trigger fades, leaving you weak and nauseated. 

Strade begins to laugh, hunching over, hands on his knees. He looks almost normal like that, tears forming in his golden eyes as his body shakes with mirth.

You've slumped forwards now, body slack from weakness and relief, ropes digging into your wrists, keeping you partially upright.

“You should have seen your face, Hasi!” Your captor finally breathes, managing to stifle the remainder of his laughter. 

He shows you the empty chamber then, and you can tell he's smiling just by the way his eyes crinkle a bit in the corners. 

He steps away again, opening a drawer, and pulls out a small box. You hear some sort of rattle, and you watch his back as he loads the gun. Bullets. He has bullets. 

He turns back to you, smiling wide. 

“We're going to play a game, Hasi.” He practically chirps, so perky, so playful.

You realize that you are going to die here.

You don't realize exactly how awful your death is going to be until he sets the gun down and removes your pants and underwear, tossing them aside. Your stomach clenches, dread and a horrifying understanding beginning to settle in your mind. 

He picks up the gun.

“There's just one bullet, Hasi. I'm going to pull the trigger five times. If it doesn't shoot, I'll let you live.”

You don't trust him, but some little part of you swells with hope. A chance, small as it may be, that you might survive this. That you could walk away. 

He presses the barrel of the gun against your entrance, slowly pushing it in, almost careful. You see the beginnings of lust tinting his cheeks red and clench your eyes shut. He grips your chin with his free hand, tight and bruising. 

“Keep your eyes open, Hasi.” He hisses, pulling the trigger for the first time. 

You yelp in fear, eyes opening wide as your lower abdomen clenches in fear. 

Click. 

You breathe out, relaxing, and you feel him smiling at you through the bandanna. You keep your eyes on his.

“Good Hasi.” 

He begins to slowly move the gun in and out of you, causing you to squirm; at first in discomfort, but soon from an unwilling sort of pleasure. 

You whimper and moan, trying to stifle the sounds by biting your bottom lip, to little avail. Soon you find yourself unconsciously rolling your hips into the gun as he begins to increase the pace, fucking you roughly with the weapon, his other hand sinking between his own legs as his breathing grows labored. 

He pulls the trigger again as you cum, gasping and shouting his name. 

Click. 

The fear only seems to further the pleasure that overcomes you, and when you finally settle, panting, confused, your eyes meet his again. 

He grins at you, his own hand still moving quickly inside his pants, and he pulls the trigger a third time. And then a fourth.

Click. Click. 

The heat that had so recently encased your body is replaced by an icy chill as your brain finally reconnects to reality. Four clicks. One to go. 

You stop breathing, tension causing your entire body to stiffen, your eyes locked on Strade's.

He winks at you, and you know, you just know, that he's smiling as he pulls the trigger one last time. 

It doesn't click. 

No, instead, you hear the sound you dreaded, and after a moment, you feel the agony caused by a bullet tearing through your insides, shattering bone and liquidizing internal organs. You can't tell where the exit wound is due to the sheer amount of gore and blood. 

You manage a scream before you begin to cough and choke on your own blood. You aren't sure if it was the bullet or the bone fragments that pierced your lungs, but you know they're rapidly filling with blood. 

Drowning you. 

You faintly feel Strade finish on you, hot cum mixing with your blood, before he stands, staring down at you. 

“You lost, Hasi.” He says, and you pretend the remorse in his voice is real.

You pretend he cares.

He lifts his foot off the ground, and you remember the rabbit in your tree house. 

You don't look away. 

The last thing you see before he brings his boot down on your skull are his eyes, beautiful and golden, and then the force of his foot caves in your skull and there is nothing.


End file.
